The Dunsmuir Decade: A Post-Script

In the wake of the #DunsmuirDecade, updated thoughts on blogs and doctrine

The Dunsmuir Decade symposium is over. It’s been great fun to host, and has provided a great deal of food for thought for me and, I am sure, for others. I might come back in future posts to some substantive points made by the contributors. And of course I need to return to my regular constitutional programming, which I have held in abeyance all this while. But before I do so, I wanted to venture a meditation on what the symposium itself means or represents.

Among the many kinds of writing that legal academics produce, there is a special genre of writing about legal writing; and one of its sub-genres is writing about legal blogs. It asks questions such as whether blogs deserve to be considered among the media through which legal scholarship can be communicated; their distinctiveness, if any, among such media; the way, if any, in which blogs can meet the needs of the legal profession or of others with whom it interacts in one way or another; and of course the ways in which blogs can or ought to change for answers to these questions to become more satisfactory. Among the notable Canadian contributions to this literature are “Legal Academia 2.0: New and Old Models of Academic Engagement and Influence” by Paul Daly ― the co-host of the Dunsmuir Decade symposium ― and Édith Guilhermont’s “La contribution des blogues juridiques à la connaissance, à la critique et aux transformations du droit“. I too have occasionally mused on the subject of blogging, and of its relationship to writing about law more broadly.

In particular, after attending a colloquium on “The Responsibility of Doctrine” or, rather, “La responsabilité de la doctrine” hosted by McGill’s Paul-André Crépeau Centre for Private and Comparative Law, I wondered about the complicated relationship between the meanings of the word doctrine in English and in French ― “doctrine” and “la doctrine” ― and also about the contribution that blogs could make to either or both of these things. I hope the readers will forgive me for quoting myself at considerable length, because, as I will explain below, I think that what I wrote then is directly relevant to the Dunsmuir Decade symposium:

The important thing about both [doctrine and la doctrine] is that they are the products of, and indeed very nearly synonymous with, collective thinking about the law. La doctrine, as I already mentioned, is a set of writings, a discourse involving multiple authors. … And doctrine is, of necessity, derived from a multitude of judicial decisions rendered over time. A person can be un auteur de doctrine, and a judicial decision can illustrate a legal doctrine, but doctrine and doctrine are both, fundamentally, ongoing conversations.

These conversations can be noisy and perhaps chaotic, since they involve multiple speakers addressing multiple subjects ― judges, scholars, and lawyers trying to figure out not only what the law is but also, at least some of the time, what it should be. (The critical component of la doctrine is often mentioned in its definitions. But those of you who have listened to Justice Stratas’ lecture [on “The Decline of Legal Doctrine“] or read my post about it, will also recall that he said that the judges who are “doctrinal” are not only interested in what the rules are, but also, perhaps, in tweaking in modifying them.) They yield no permanent truths and no irrevocable agreements, and as new voices enter both their vocabulary and their contents shifts, usually imperceptibly, sometimes abruptly.

But meandering and sometimes cacophonous though these conversations are, they are the visible, and therefore the imperfect, manifestation of the jurists’ quest to make the law coherent and conducive to the public good through argument and shared deliberation. Common lawyers, most famously Chief Justice Coke, called this quest the “artificial reason” of the law. While I am not aware of an exact civilian equivalent, I believe that Portalis, for example, with his insistence that “[l]aws are not pure acts of power; they are acts of wisdom, justice and reason,” and that “[t]he lawmaker … must not lose sight of the fact that laws are made for men, and not men for laws” would have shared its spirit.

At least some of Friday’s presenters insisted that la doctrine is our joint responsibility as juristes … So did Justice Stratas in his lecture, as called upon judges, lawyers, and scholars alike to devote ourselves to doctrine, and on all of those who write about the law to take doctrine seriously. … The web 2.0, and especially the blogs, are already a part of the doctrinal conversations, and will be an ever more important one in the years to come. Justice Stratas not only mentioned a couple of bloggers (specifically, Paul Daly and yours truly, for which I am very grateful to him) as examples of legal writers who take doctrine seriously, but also kindly commented on my post about his lecture. This sort of exchange was simply impossible until a few years ago, and I suspect that, for many, it still seems inconceivable. But I am hopeful, and pretty confident, that in time it will no longer seem so. … [I]f doctrine and doctrine are to flourish in the 21st century, they will need to remain open to new forms, and that it will not do to ignore these new forms simply because they are unfamiliar.

One of the joys of the Dunsmuir Decade symposium for me ― and the reason I am so tediously repeating myself ― is that it was, I think, a perfect demonstration of what the synthesis of doctrine and doctrine that I had in mind looks like, and of the blogs’ contribution. It was an instance of collective thinking about the law in an attempt to figure out where the law stands, how it got there, and whither it ought to go if it is to fulfill the requirements of coherence and orientation to the public good. It was a conversation that involved a variety of voices ― not just academics but also legal practitioners and judges (the first time, I think, that Canadian judges have published blog posts!) ― and that was suitably “meandering and cacophonous”, perhaps to the bemusement of Justices LeBel and Bastarache, who kindly provided its conclusion. But while we have surely not arrived at any final truths about administrative law, I am pretty confident that we have, together, strengthened its “artificial reason”.

And of course this conversation happened on blogs ― and I doubt that it could have happened elsewhere. Blog posts, though the Dunsmuir Decade ones were admittedly long by the standards of the medium, allow one to develop an argument to a much greater extent than a 15-minute conference presentation, yet are still easier both to write and to read than full-blown journal articles or book chapters. The blogging symposium thus has advantages over both the traditional conference, in the depth of the reflection that it makes possible, and over, say, an edited collection of essays, in terms of both breadth ― and over both in terms of the cost in time and money for both organizers and participants.

All this is not to say that these more longstanding fora for doctrine and doctrine have lost their relevance. As Prof. Daly and Dr. Guilhermont also noted, the new media, including the blogs, are complementary to the old; they will not fully replace them any time soon, if ever. But as they have noted too, and as I did, new forms, including especially blogs, will be an essential support for doctrine and doctrine in the years and decades to come. I think that the Dunsmuir Decade symposium demonstrated that this was not just a futuristic vision of a few enthusiasts, but the reality here and now.

Ceci est-il une conversation?

The Supreme Court holds we can expect our text messages to remain private, even on other people`s phones

Last week, the Supreme Court released its eagerly-awaited judgment in R v Marakah, 2017 SCC 59, holding that a person had standing to challenge the admissibility of text messages to which he was a party but which the police had seized from another’s cell phone. The Chief Justice wrote the majority opinion, in which Justices Abella, Karakatsanis, and Gascon concurred. Justice Rowe wrote a brief concurrence, raising some concerns about the future implications of the majority opinion, with which he nevertheless agreed. Justice Moldaver, with the agreement of Justice Côté, wrote a fierce, strongly-worded dissent.

Section 8 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms provides that “[e]veryone has the right to be secure against unreasonable search or seizure”.  This right applies when a person has an objectively reasonable “expectation of privacy” in the thing or information that is the object of the search or seizure. There is no question that Mr Marakah wanted and expected his exchange of text messages with an accomplice in a weapons-trafficking venture to remain private. But was he entitled to expect that the police would not read these messages on that accomplice’s phone?

The majority and Justice Rowe think that he was. As the Chief Justice put it, the

interconnected web of devices and servers creates an electronic world of digital communication that, in the 21st century, is every bit as real as physical space. The millions of us who text friends, family, and acquaintances may each be viewed as having appropriated a corner of this electronic space for our own purposes. There, we seclude ourselves and convey our private messages, just as we might use a room in a home or an office to talk behind closed doors. [28]

The information exchanged in these nooks and crannies of cyberspace is, potentially, highly private, and indeed “[i]ndividuals may even have an acute privacy interest in the fact of their electronic communications”. [33] Crucially,

this zone of privacy extends beyond one’s own mobile device; it can include the electronic conversations in which one shares private information with others. It is reasonable to expect these private interactions — and not just the contents of a particular cell phone at a particular point in time — to remain private. [37]

The fact that we might not control all the devices through which this information is accessible is not especially important. It is the information exchanged, the conversation, that is the subject of the expectation of privacy, not whatever device might allow one it view it. And even the fact the person with whom one is texting could disclose the fact or the content of the conversation does not allow the state to read it.

Justice Moldaver disagrees. For him, control is a key factor in the analysis. Justice Moldaver writes that “the reasonableness of a person’s expectation of privacy depends on the nature and strength of that person’s connection to the subject matter of the search”, and “[w]here an individual lacks any measure of control, this serves as a compelling indicator that an expectation of personal privacy is unreasonable”. [98] Justice Moldaver gives a number of examples: DNA in one’s body is private, but DNA traces left on, say, the body of a victim of a crime are not; thoughts recorded in a private diary are private, but not those publicly shared online. [116] While control does not require ownership or exclusivity of access, a lack of control means that information is not in a meaningful sense private.

When it comes to conversations, including conversations conducted by text messaging, Justice Moldaver is of the view that one loses control over what one has said once one has said it. What one’s interlocutor’s phone records is “an independent record”, [128] similar to the notes one might make after a spoken conversation, and within the interlocutor’s exclusive control. Evesdropping on an ongoing conversation, or intercepting text messages as they are being sent, violates a reasonable expectation of privacy. By contrast, just as each party to a conservation is free to share a record or recollection of it, and his or her interlocutor can (subject to any applicable privacy legislation) have no reasonable expectation of privacy in that record, so it is also with a “record” of a conversation conducted via text messaging.

Here, as I see it, is one important point of disagreement between the majority and the dissent. Both are ostensibly agreed that what Mr. Marakah had, or lacked, a reasonable expectation of privacy — or, in other words, “the subject matter of the search was Mr. Marakah’s ‘electronic conversation’ with” his accomplice. [17; 111] But it seems to me that while the majority does indeed approach the case as one about the privacy of a conversation, the dissent sees it as being not about a conversation as such, but rather about a record of a conversation. To repeat, Justice Moldaver accepts that “an electronic conversation” would be private; it could not be intercepted without due authorization. But the messages stored in the cell phone of one of the parties to the conversation are not the same thing. They are like the notes one of the interlocutors took. (Hence the title of this, in reference to René Magritte’s notorious The Treachery of Images, a.k.a. Ceci n’est pas une pipe.) As Justice Moldaver suggests, we can expect not to be eavesdropped on, when having a private conversation, but not necessarily that the contents of that conversation will never be revealed to third parties. So the majority decision makes sense in light of how it understood the issue, and the dissent makes sense in light of its author’s different understanding of the case.

But which of them is correct? I personally find this a very difficult question. A number of legal issues arising out of new technologies, broadly speaking, has to do with the erasure of the once-clear line between the spoken and the written word. The former was (usually) spontaneous and fleeting; the latter (relatively) deliberate and permanent. But electronic communications combine spontaneity and permanence in a way to which many of us are still only getting used and with which the legal system, unsurprisingly, struggles. One of my very early posts, for instance, was about a case that concerned an attempt by a university to punish students who ranted about their professor on Facebook. Student rants about a professor are nothing new, but the fact that they were made online rather than over beers left a record for the authorities to look into and to try (unsuccessfully in the event) suppressing. In a different way, the disagreement about the way to characterize text messaging “conversations” — often created in a spontaneous way, as if the parties were together in the same room, but a permanent record for the police to look at later — exemplifies the same set of difficulties. (This might come out most clearly in Justice Rowe’s brief concurrence.) On balance, though, I am inclined to think that Justice Moldaver’s view makes more sense. The idea of a never-finished conversation, to which one is always an ongoing party, and in which one is permanently entitled to expected privacy, which seems implicit in the majority’s approach, doesn’t quite make sense to me. This is a very tentative thought, however, and a minority view, I gather.

Beyond the characterization of “electronic conversations”, the Chief Justice and Justice Moldaver also disagree about the policy implications of the Supreme Court’s decision. In particular, Justice Moldaver worries that police will not be able to access, without a warrant, “electronic conversations” that are voluntarily tendered to them by one of the parties, even when the conversations are themselves crimes, and the parties disclosing them to the police are victims. A person may, for example, receive a threatening text message, and want to show it to police officers, but it is not clear that the police will be entitled to look without judicial authorization. At best, this will complicate the work of the police; at worst, serious crimes will go unpunished. The Chief Justice responds that these difficulties can be dealt with if and when they arise. For his part, Justice Rowe is not so sure, and I take that it is because he ” share[s] the concerns raised by Justice Moldaver as to the consequences of this decision” [89] that he goes to the trouble of writing separately.

A lot, then, remains to be decided. Privacy issues have been consistently difficult for the Supreme Court, or at any rate more consistently divisive than most others. I find these issues difficult too, so I have sympathy for judges on both sides. That the majority wants to be protective of privacy in a way the majority in R v Fearon, 2014 SCC 77, [2014] SCR 621 (which I criticized here) was not is heartening. (Some people on Twitter were wondering how many of the judges had got smartphones in the meantime. A cynical question, perhaps, but I’m not well placed to critcize those who are cynical about judges, am I?) The question now is whether the pendulum has swung too far in the direction of privacy. It might have, but we will have to wait to find out.

All about Administrative Law

Justice Stratas’ remarkable endeavour to improve our understanding of administrative law

Justice Stratas recently posted a most remarkable document on SSRN. Called “The Canadian Law of Judicial Review: Some Doctrine and Cases“, it is nothing less than a comprehensive overview of the concepts, principles, and rules of administrative law in an accessible format, for the reference of judges, lawyers, scholars, and students. While Justice Stratas cautions that it “is not meant to be complete” (1), and notes ― with perhaps just a little optimism ― that it “can be read from beginning to end in one short sitting” (7), the wealth of information it contains is really astonishing.

Here is how Justice Stratas himself describes what he is doing:

 It is hard to find a useful, up-to-date summary of the Canadian law of judicial review. This summary attempts in a scholarly way to fill that gap. It attempts to work at two levels: the level of basic concept and the level of detail. First, it describes the basic ordering concepts in the Canadian law of judicial review. Then it proceeds to the three analytical steps to determine an application for judicial review: preliminary and procedural concerns, the merits of the judicial review (review for substantive defects and procedural defects), and remedies. Finally, it examines appeals from applications for judicial review.

Along the way, key Canadian cases are referenced and discussed. A few are critiqued. The cases include major Supreme Court of Canada cases that strongly influence the law and cases from other courts that offer further instruction on that law. Many of these cases are from the Federal Court of Appeal, the intermediate appellate court that decides more administrative law cases in Canada than any other appellate court. Some cases from other jurisdictions are referenced and discussed for comparative purposes. Some academic commentaries and articles are also referenced and discussed. To facilitate study, all cases and articles are hyperlinked to online full-text versions (where available).

The reader is warned that this is only a summary and regard should be had to its date. It is no substitute for competent, specific legal research on a particular issue. Nevertheless, it is hoped that this summary will enrich readers’ understandings and stimulate them to consider, reflect upon and make their own valuable contributions to the doctrine.

(SSRN abstract; some paragraph breaks removed)

Justice Stratas’ work (I am not sure how to describe it ― it is neither an article nor a case- or textbook; in a way, it is perhaps a super-blog-post; more on that shortly) is of course an outstanding service to the legal profession writ large. But it is also, I think, a challenge to us, or indeed several challenges at once.

For one thing, as he did in his lecture on “The Decline of Legal Doctrine” last year, which I commented on here, Justice Stratas calls upon us to devote ourselves to shoring up this weakened edifice. As he notes in his introduction, in order to treat litigants fairly, judges must apply

ideas and concepts binding upon them, a body of doctrine. … If decisions are made because of an individual judge’s sense of fairness or justice, the appearance, if not the reality, is that the decision sprung from personal or political beliefs of an unelected person. (4)

Here, Justice Stratas now says, is a restatement of the ideas and concepts that structure administrative law. One challenge for us simply to help him with it: “contributions of case law, articles, comments and input will improve this document and are most welcome”. (9) But there is a broader challenge here too, especially to those of us in academia. If a sitting judge is able to produce such a statement in a notoriously tricky and unsettled area of the law, why haven’t we done something similar in others?

Now, of course there treatises and textbooks in many areas of the law, and part of what prompted Justice Stratas to put together his document, which is based on PowerPoint presentations he uses to speak on administrative law, is the dearth of “new, up-to-date texts on administrative law, perhaps reflecting its currently unsettled nature. Who dares write about a landscape that is shifting so much?” (6) But Justice Stratas challenges us on the form as much as on the substance. He forces us to think about the media we use to present legal doctrine, even we do write about it.

Justice Stratas points out that

[b]ack in the day of published law reports, knowledgeable editors, skilled in the area, could pick out the cases that matter. These days, however, most lawyers work online, not from the law reports, encounter the flood of cases and somehow have to separate the wheat from the chaff. Alas, most don’t have criteria in mind to do that. (5)

Meanwhile, loose-leaf services, though informative as to particular cases, might tend to “encourage us to think of administrative law as a bunch of particular rules that govern particular topics”, (6) without thinking about underlying concepts and their inter-relationships. (Justice Stratas’ concerns here echo those of Jeremy Waldron, whose work emphasizes the “systematicity” of law, and seeks to push back against treating it as just a collection of unrelated rules and commands.)

And then, of course, there is a concern about access to justice, or to law anyway. In an age in which, on the one hand, many litigants represent themselves, and on the other, those who take interest in Canadian administrative law are sometimes half a world away from a Canadian law library, and also in an area in which the resources even of many practising lawyers are likely to be limited (I’m thinking, for instance, of the immigration bar), it would arguably not be enough to point people to books even if very good ones existed. Justice Stratas writes that

[t]he law should be accessible to all: other judges, counsel, academics, law students, parties and self-represented litigants. Online publication and availability for free encourages this. Hence this document and the location where I have posted it. (6)

If we accept the doctrinal mission with which Justice Stratas wants to invest us, we must think about the form of our work as well as its content. I’m not sure that we must quite imitate Justice Stratas. His document has some advantages. It is relatively easy to access, concise, and convenient in its abundant use of hyperlinks. But I think that a website having the same content would be even easier to access than a document one must download from SSRN, and easier to navigate than a pdf through which one must scroll. Needless to say, I am not criticizing Justice Stratas. Again, we owe him greatly, and I, at least, would probably not have started thinking about this without his nudge. But if can improve on his first attempt in this regard, then we should.

Last year, I wrote about about a symposium at McGill about the “Responsibility of Doctrine”. Musing on the English/common law and French/civilian senses of the word doctrine/doctrine, I concluded that if these ongoing conversations about the law “are to flourish in the 21st century, they will need to remain open to new forms, and … it will not do to ignore these new forms simply because they are unfamiliar.” Justice Stratas makes a remarkable contribution to legal doctrine, in both of its senses, in an unfamiliar form. I hope that the legal community will pay all the more attention to it for this reason.

H/t: Patrick Baud

Maneant Scripta

The Supreme Court protects its sources from “link rot”

This will be an unusual post. First, it will be short. Second, it will praise the Supreme Court of Canada, for a change. Some years ago, I wrote here about the problem of “link rot” as it affects judicial decisions. Courts refer to online materials ― sometimes even blog posts, though I don’t think the Supreme Court of Canada has done that yet ― and provide references to these sources in their reasons. Unfortunately, the online addresses of these sources ― the URLs that enable the readers to find them ― can change. Indeed, the materials can simply be taken down. Finding the sources on which judges rely becomes difficult in the former case, and impossible in the latter. Unless, that is, the courts actually do something about it. And now the Supreme Court has.

Here is the Court’s announcement:

Recognizing that web pages or websites that the Court cites in its judgments may subsequently vary in content or be discontinued, the Office of the Registrar of the SCC has located and archived the content of most online sources that had been cited by the Court between 1998 and 2016. These sources were captured with a content as close as possible to the original content cited. Links to the archived content can be found here: Internet Sources Cited in SCC Judgments (1998 – 2016).

From 2017 onward, online internet sources cited in the “Authors Cited” section in SCC judgments will be captured and archived.  When a judgment cites such a source, an “archived version” link will be provided to facilitate future research.

The Supreme Court of the United States has maintained an archive of “Internet sources cited in opinions“, albeit only going back to 2005, for some time now. Having taken a quick look at the websites of the UK and New Zealand Supreme Courts, I cannot find any equivalent archive, though perhaps I haven’t searched carefully enough.

It is great that the Supreme Court of Canada follows, and indeed improves on, the initiative of its American counterpart, and rescues its sources from oblivion. This is going to be very helpful to anyone ― a journalist, a researcher, or just a citizen ― who is interested in understanding what information the court relied on in making its decisions. As I wrote in my original post on this issue, the problem of “link rot” in the Supreme Court’s decisions was quite serious:

Of the links in the five oldest cases to cite any, not a single one still works, though one … leads to an automatic re-direct, and so is still useful. The rest lead either to error messages or even to an offer to buy the domain on which the page linked to had once been posted (a page belonging  to the BC Human Rights Commission ― which has since been abolished).

The Court’s effort to remedy this problem is to be applauded.

Selfie Slow-Down

I have already blogged about one American judicial decision on the constitutionality of a “ballot selfie” ban, which has since been upheld on appeal by the Court of Appeals for the 1st Circuit. And I have also written about the history of the secret ballot, which in my view explains why measures to protect ballot secrecy ― including bans on something that might at first glance appear quite innocuous, like a selfie showing for whom a person has voted ― are actually more important than they seem. Another American decision issued last week, this one by the Court of Appeals for the 6th Circuit, provides some additional food for thought on this issue.

Much of the discussion in Judge Sutton’s majority opinion in Crookston v Johnson is procedural. The case came up as an application for a preliminary injunction preventing the enforcement of Michigan’s prohibition on “exposing marked ballots to others”, (1) and Judge Sutton concludes that it is simply too late to grant one now in anticipation of the elections to be held on November 8. The people who will be running the election have already been trained and have received specific guidance on photography at the polling stations. Changing the rules at this point would create unnecessary confusion. So Judge Sutton does not rule on the merits of the case, which will be assessed later, assuming the applicant still cares. (This situation is reminiscent of the Canadian cases about election debates, which are invariably brought on an emergency basis when the debates are set up, and invariably abandoned before a full merits hearing once the election has taken place.)

But Judge Sutton does make some comments that bear on the merits of the dispute, and, although preliminary, these comments strike me as quite sensible and interesting. One observation is that

many Michigan voting stalls … are simply tall desks, placed next to each other, with three short dividers shielding the writing surface from view. In this setting, posing for a ballot selfie could compromise the secrecy of another’s ballot, distract other voters, and force a poll worker to intervene. (4)

My memory of Canadian voting stalls is a bit hazy ― I skipped the last election because I couldn’t tell which of the parties was worst ― but something like that might be true of them too. And indeed, even if it is not in any given case, it is worth thinking about whether our voting arrangements must actually be planned so as to cater to the “needs” of people wishing to snap a selfie.

Another practical point is that allowing ballot selfies could create a “risk of delay” at the polling stations, “as ballot-selfie takers try to capture the marked ballot and face in one frame—all while trying to catch the perfect smile”. (5) In a brief concurrence focusing entirely on the issue of delay, Judge Guy makes the additional point that “with digital photography, if you don’t like the way you look in the first one, you take another and so on ad infinitum.” (7) He wonders, too, whether “the allowance of taking a selfie also include use of the ubiquitous selfie stick”. (7)

And then, there are the issues that I have already discussed here ― whether the absence of evidence of ballot selfies’ harm shows that there is no reason for banning them or, on the contrary, demonstrates the effectiveness of the bans as a prophylactic measure. Judge Sutton clearly thinks that the latter is the case. Moreover, “[t]he links between [voter corruption and intimidation] and the prohibition on ballot exposure are not some historical accident; they are ‘common sense'”. (5, quoting US Supreme Court precedent.) Chief Judge Cole, dissenting, takes the contrary view, as have other American courts that have addressed selfie bans.

For own part, without expressing an opinion as to which of these views is correct as a matter of U.S. law, I have more sympathy for Judge Sutton’s. While I have been dwelling on the importance of evidence in constitutional adjudication for some time now, and critical of restricting rights on the basis of assumptions no later than yesterday, the evidence is actually there, albeit that it is mostly historical. Moreover, a court should be able to pronounce on the issue of delay without waiting for an “experiment” to take place. Common sense can be an unreliable guide to adjudication, but ― absent evidence to the contrary ― courts should be able to rely on it sometimes.

Prohibitions of ballot selfies might seem counter-intuitive or even quaint. In the United States, they run counter to the very strong tradition of virtually untrammelled freedom of expression. While I sometimes wish that Canadians took more inspiration from that tradition than they do (for example when it comes to the criminalization of “hate speech”), this is one instance where a more even-handed weighing of competing interests might be in order. Judges Sutton and Guy provide a useful reminder of what some of these interests are.

L’Uber et l’argent d’Uber

Une poursuite contre Uber carbure à l’ignorance économique

Certaines personnes qui ont eu recours aux service d’Uber la nuit du Nouvel an ont payé cher. Très cher même, dans certains cas. Car, contrairement aux taxis traditionnels dont les prix sont toujours les mêmes, Uber pratique ce que l’entreprise appelle le « prix dynamique » ― un prix qui fluctue, parfois très rapidement, en fonction de la demande pour ses voitures qui existe à un endroit et à un moment donné. Puisque la demande était très forte et très concentrée à la fin des festivités du réveillon, les prix ordinaires ont été multipliés par un facteur parfois très élevé ― facteur dont un client qui commandait une course était avisé, et qu’il devait même entrer, manuellement, dans l’application afin de pouvoir passer sa commande.

Or, on apprenait vendredi qu’une des clientes d’Uber, Catherine Papillon, qui a payé 8,9 fois le prix ordinaire pour sa course, veut intenter un recours collectif contre l’entreprise, à moins que celle-ci ne la rembourse. Représentée par Juripop, elle prétend avoir été lésée par le prix « anormalement élevé[…] » qu’elle a payé. Quant au consentement qu’elle a donné en commandant sa course, elle soutient que celui-ci ne peut lui être opposé vu la lésion qu’elle a subie. Elle affirme, du reste, ne pas avoir compris ce que le « 8,9 » qu’elle a entré en passant sa commande voulait dire.

Patrick Lagacé explique bien, dans une chronique parue dans La Presse, pour les personnes dans la situation de Mme Papillon ne méritent pas notre sympathie:

La nuit du Nouvel An, vous le savez sans doute, est la pire nuit où tenter de trouver un taxi. J’ai personnellement frôlé l’amputation du gros orteil droit, un 1er janvier de la fin du XXe siècle, en tentant de trouver un taxi au centre-ville de Montréal pour me ramener à bon port, au petit matin. Des centaines, peut-être des milliers d’autres cabochons dans la même situation que moi cherchaient eux aussi des taxis, introuvables…

Un détail révélateur du récit de Mme Papillon suggère qu’elle aussi se retrouvait dans une situation similaire : elle « a expliqué qu’elle s’est inscrite sur Uber “en cinq minutes”, peu avant de faire appel à la compagnie dans la nuit du 31 décembre au 1er janvier ». On ne sait pas encore pourquoi elle l’a fait, mais on peut deviner, n’est-ce pas? (Et les avocats d’Uber ne manqueront pas, j’en suis sûr, de lui poser la question pour confirmer la réponse dont on se doute.) Alors, écrit M. Lagacé, quand les gens acceptent de payer un prix, fût-il exorbitant, qui leur est clairement annoncé, pour s’épargner la recherche futile d’un taxi qui n’arrive jamais, eh bien, c’est un choix qu’ils font et dont ils devraient assumer la responsabilité.

Le droit voit-il les choses d’une manière différente? Je ne suis pas civiliste, encore moins spécialiste du droit de la consommation. Je ne prétendrai donc pas émettre de pronostic sur l’issue de la cause de Mme Papillon. Je crois, cependant, pouvoir émettre une opinion sur ce que le résultat de ce recours devrait être si les juges qui en disposeront s’en tiennent aux principes élémentaires qu’il met en cause.

Ces principes sont non seulement, et peut-être même pas tant, moraux qu’économiques. Les biens et les services n’ont pas de valeur intrinsèque qui pourrait servir à déterminer leur prix « juste ». Leur prix sur un marché libre dépend de l’offre et de la demande. Il s’agit, en fait, d’un signal. Si un service ― par exemple une course en taxi ― commande un prix élevé, les vendeurs ― par exemple, les chauffeurs ― savent qu’ils feront beaucoup d’argent en offrant le service en question. Plusieurs vendeurs s’amènent donc sur le marché ― par exemple, dans les rues du Vieux-Montréal ― pour offrir leurs services aux acheteurs. En même temps, le prix élevé signale aux acheteurs que s’ils le veulent acquérir le service, il leur en coûtera cher. Ceux qui tiennent à l’obtenir le feront, alors que d’autres trouveront des alternatives ou attendront. C’est ainsi que le nombre de vendeurs et d’acheteurs s’équilibre, et que ceux qui sont prêts à payer sont servis rapidement. Uber prétend que ceux qui ont voulu utiliser son service le matin du Jour de l’An n’ont attendu qu’un peu plus de quatre minutes, en moyenne, grâce au nombre record de chauffeurs qui étaient sur la route. Personne parmi eux, on peut parier, n’a « frôlé l’amputation du gros orteil droit », comme M. Lagacé jadis. 

Son histoire est, par ailleurs, un bon rappel de ce qui arrive si les prix ne peuvent pas augmenter en réponse à une forte demande ― par exemple parce qu’ils sont fixés par décret gouvernemental, comme le sont les prix du taxi traditionnel. Puisque les prix n’augmentent pas, les vendeurs n’ont aucune raison supplémentaire d’entrer sur le marché, et il n’y en a pas plus que d’habitude. Si, en plus, le nombre de vendeurs est limité ― par exemple, parce que le gouvernement fixe un nombre maximal de licenses de taxi ― il ne peut pas augmenter pour répondre à une demande exceptionnelle par définition. Dès lors, c’est l’attente et la chance, plutôt que la volonté de payer qui déterminent qui recevra et qui ne recevra pas le service ― et les engelures s’ensuivent.

J’en arrive aux questions juridiques qui se poseront dans la poursuite contre Uber. Mme Papillon et ses avocats prétendront sans doute que le contrat qui fait en sorte qu’une course de taxi qui coûte 80$ au lieu d’une dizaine « désavantage le consommateur  […] d’une manière excessive et déraisonnable », ce qui, en vertu de l’article 1437 du Code civil du Québec, donne ouverture à la réduction de l’obligation qui découle de ce contrat ― en l’occurrence, du prix payé par Mme Papillon. Ils soutiendront aussi qu’il s’agit d’un cas où « la disproportion entre les prestations respectives des parties est tellement considérable qu’elle équivaut à de l’exploitation du consommateur, ou que l’obligation du consommateur est excessive, abusive ou exorbitante », ce qui permet également au consommateur de demander la réduction de ses obligations, en vertu cette fois de l’article 8 de la Loi sur la protection du consommateur. Ils auront tort.

Car penser que la prestation d’Uber se limite au déplacement de son client, c’est ignorer les principes économiques fondamentaux que je viens d’exposer. Uber ne fait pas que déplacer son passager d’un point de départ à un point d’arrivée. Avant même de pouvoir le faire, Uber s’assure d’abord qu’il y aura une voiture pour cueillir le client ― et qu’elle sera là en un temps utile ou, du moins, assez court pour que le client ne se gèle pas les extrémités. C’est ça aussi, la prestation d’Uber, et la raison pour laquelle les gens font appel à ses services même lorsque ceux-ci sont plus chers que le taxi traditionnel. Et c’est pour s’assurer de livrer cette prestation qu’Uber doit faire augmenter ses prix lorsque la demande pour ses services est particulièrement forte. Le recours de Mme Papillon, qui fait abstraction de cette réalité, est, dès lors, fondé sur l’ignorance des règles économiques de base ou sur l’aveuglement volontaire face à celles-ci. Si les juges qui se prononcent sur ce recours comprennent ces règles, ils le rejetteront du revers de la main.

S’ils souhaitent raisonner a contrario, les juges pourront, par ailleurs, se demander quelle serait la réparation qu’ils devraient accorder s’ils faisaient droit à la demande de Mme Papillon. Il s’agirait, de toute évidence, d’une réduction du prix payé ― mais une réduction jusqu’à quel point? Si un commerçant réussit à flouer un consommateur en lui faisant payer un prix exorbitant, mais qu’il remplit, par ailleurs, ses obligations en vertu du contrat, il semble juste de réduire le prix jusqu’à celui qui prévaut sur le marché. Or, y a-t-il un tel prix dans les circonstances qui nous intéressent? Le prix du taxi traditionnel n’a rien à voir avec celui du marché, non seulement parce qu’il est le produit d’un fiat gouvernemental, mais aussi parce que, de toute évidence, ce n’est un prix d’équilibre, c’est-à-dire un prix auquel l’offre et la demande se rejoignent. Au prix du taxi traditionnel, la demande est de loin supérieure à l’offre ― d’où l’orteil gelé de M. Lagacé. Comment un tribunal s’y prendrait-il pour déterminer le prix du marché en l’absence, justement, d’un marché ― autre que celui qu’Uber a créé? Il ne pourrait le faire que d’une façon parfaitement arbitraire, ce qui serait contraire à notre compréhension habituelle du rôle des tribunaux. (J’avais déjà soulevé un problème similaire en parlant d’un recours contre la SAQ, fondé, lui aussi, sur l’article 8 de la Loi sur la protection du consommateur.) Comment est-ce qu’un tribunal saurait, en fait, que le prix exigé par Uber n’est pas le prix du marché? C’est à Mme Papillon, en tant que demanderesse, de le prouver, me semble-t-il. Je ne vois pas comment elle pourrait le faire.

Un mot, en conclusion, sur la position de Juripop dans cette histoire. Cet organisme n’est pas un bureau d’avocats ordinaire qui défend la cause de ses clients, fût-elle guidée par la plus pure cupidité. C’est soi-disant une « clinique juridique », une « entreprise d’économie sociale », dont la mission consiste à « soutenir l’accessibilité [sic] des personnes à la justice ». Or, Juripop ne se place pas du côté de la justice en appuyant Mme Papillon. Car la justice ne consiste pas à se déresponsabiliser face aux conséquences annoncées d’actions qu’on a posées, comme elle cherche à le faire. Et la justice ne peut pas se réaliser dans l’ignorance des lois économiques. Comme le disait fort sagement Friedrich Hayek dans La route de la servitude, « [i]l peut sembler noble de dire, “au diable la science économique, bâtissons plutôt un monde décent” ― mais c’est en fait simplement irresponsable » (je traduis). Les québécois le savent, d’ailleurs: ce n’est pas réclamer justice que de vouloir le beurre et l’argent du beurre.

Silencing the Bullies

In my last post, I wrote about the decision of the Supreme Court of Nova Scotia in Crouch v. Snell, 2015 NSSC 340, which struck down that province’s Cyber-Safety Act, a law intended “to provide safer communities by creating administrative and court processes that can be used to address and prevent cyberbullying.” Justice McDougall held that the statute both infringed the freedom of expression and could lead to deprivations of liberty not in accordance with principles of fundamental justice, contrary to sections 2(b) and 7 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, and was not justified under section 1 of the Charter. As I indicated in the conclusion of my last post, I believe that this was the right decision. Here are some thoughts about why that is so, and also about some deficiencies, or unanswered questions, in Justice McDougall’s reasons.

Perhaps the most interesting question Justice McDougall raises is whether the limits the Cyber-Safety Act imposed on the freedom of expression are “prescribed by law” within the meaning of section 1 of the Charter. Justice McDougall holds that they are not, because to issue a “protection order” meant to stop a person from engaging in cyberbullying a justice of the peace or a judge must not only find that that person engaged in cyberbullying in the past, but also that “there are reasonable grounds to believe that [that person] will engage in cyberbullying of the subject in the future.” (Subs. 8(b)) Justice McDougall is concerned that there is no indication in the statute as to what those reasonable grounds might be, and that the procedure, especially the ex-parte procedure before a justice of the peace, will not yield sufficient evidence on the basis of which to decide whether the “reasonable grounds to believe” requirement is met.

I find this reasoning intriguing and perplexing at the same time. It seems to me that Justice McDougall’s real concern is not with the vagueness of the statute’s words ― as is usually the case when courts ask whether a limitation of Charter rights is “prescribed by law” ― but with the procedure the statute creates. The concept of “reasonable grounds to believe” already exists in criminal law without attracting censure for vagueness and, as Justice McDougall himself observes, judges are sometimes asked to determine whether there exists a risk that an offender will re-offend in the future. But such determinations are made on the basis of substantial evidence submitted by both parties to an adversarial process. Here, by contrast, the decision must be made on the basis of (potentially flimsy) evidence submitted by one party alone. I agree that this is disturbing, and ought to be regarded as constitutionally problematic, but I’m not sure that “vagueness” is the appropriate name for this problem. Nor is it obvious that any other part of the Oakes test ought would be a better place to address the issue that Justice McDougall raises. Perhaps we need to recognize a procedural element to the “prescribed by law” prong of section 1, in keeping with Jeremy Waldron’s insight that the Rule of Law, and arguably the very concept of law, are crucially dependent on the existence of certain procedures through which the application of legal norms can be channelled and contested, as well as on formal requirements such as publicity and intelligibility that are better captured by the notion of vagueness.

Another question worth asking about Justice McDougall’s reasons is whether he is correct to find that the ex-parte process created by the Cyber-Safety Act is not rationally connected to the Act‘s objectives, except in emergencies or in cases where it is impossible for a victim of cyber-bullying to identify the perpetrator. Courts have seldom found that a law was not rationally connected to its purposes ― it is usually a low bar. Again, I am sympathetic to Justice McDougall seeing a procedure that give no notice to a person whose writings ― no matter how troublesome ― are about to be censored as a serious problem. Still, I’m not sure that, problematic though it is, an ex parte procedure is an irrational response to legislative concerns with timeliness and accessibility of remedies against cyberbullying, which Justice McDougall acknowledged in his decision. It will be interesting to see if appellate courts approach this issue in the same way as Justice McDougall did.

So much for the procedure created by the Cyber-Safety Act. As disturbing as it is, its contents is, if anything, even more troubling from a constitutional standpoint. Somewhat curiously, Justice McDougall does not have all that much to say about the scope and effect of the Cyber-Safety Act, which he addresses under the headings of minimal impairment and balancing between the Act’s positive and negative effects. What he does say, however, is damning indeed: the definition of cyberbullying, in particular, he finds to be “a colossal failure,” [165] catching “many types of expression that go to the core of freedom of expression values.” [175] That is true, but the point might bear some elaboration.

Take another look at the statutory definition of cyberbullying. It

means any electronic communication through the use of technology including, without limiting the generality of the foregoing, computers, other electronic devices, social networks, text messaging, instant messaging, websites and electronic mail, typically repeated or with continuing effect, that is intended or ought reasonably [to] be expected to cause fear, intimidation, humiliation, distress or other damage or harm to another person’s health, emotional well-being, self-esteem or reputation, and includes assisting or encouraging such communication in any way. (Par. 3(1)(b); brackets apparently in the original.)

Think about it. Any communication using computers or cell phones that “ought reasonably to be expected to cause … damage to another person’s … emotional well-being” ― anything that a reasonable person ought to know will make anyone else, anyone at all (since the statute does not in any way restrict who the “other person” whose well-being mustn’t be harmed), upset or feel bad counts as cyberbullying and is liable to be censored. As Eugene Volokh points out in an important article (as well as a bunch of posts on the Volokh Conspiracy) that the defenders of ant-cyberbullying legislation would do well to read, sometimes telling things that will have that effect on people is necessary to explain your own feelings or actions:

[i]f you want to explain to your friends why you’re depressed, or why you’ve broken up with someone, or why you’re moving out of town or taking another job, you might need to tell them about your husband’s cheating, your ex-boyfriend’s sexually transmitted disease, your ex-girlfriend’s impending bankruptcy, or even your mother’s dementia. (761-62)

Sometimes, indeed, you even want to make people feel bad, and with good reason:

speech remains valuable to public debate even when the speaker is motivated by hostility. Often much of the most useful criticism of a person comes from people who have good reason to wish that person ill—if you are mistreated by a politician, religious leader, businessperson, or lawyer, you might acquire both useful information about the person’s faults and resentment towards that person. (774)

And of course, quite apart from any contribution to the public debate, being able to tell why you are aggrieved at someone is important to self-expression. It is often said that people should not have to suffer in silence. But under the Cyber-Safety Act, they are likely to have to do so, since it may well be impossible to explain their emotions in ways that will not hurt the feelings or injure the reputation of the person they blame ― correctly or otherwise ― for their suffering.

Justice McDougall hints at these issues when points at the absence of defences such as truth in the Cyber-Safety Act, and notes that it applies to private and public communications alike. However, I think that it is important to explain in more detail, and with examples, why the extremely broad definition of cyberbullying in this legislation is so problematic. Moreover, even adding the defences of truth absence of ill-will would be enough to remedy the problem. The former is inapplicable to statements of opinion. The latter is insufficient for the reasons explained by prof. Volokh.

Beyond its (very real) unfairness and procedural defects, the fundamental problem with the Cyber-Safety Act is that it seeks to censor communications which the law has never regarded ― and, indeed, still does not regard ― as wrongs, whether civil or criminal. A statement need not be defamatory or otherwise tortious, much less amount to hate speech or be otherwise criminal, to fall within the definition of cyberbullying. The legislature, presumably, thought that this is not a problem so long as it was not imposing a penalty for the making statements considered to be cyberbullying. Whether the requirements that can imposed as part of a “protection order” issued pursuant to the Cyber-Safety Act, which can include not only prospective and retroactive censorship, but also a ban on using certain devices or online services really are not penalties is questionable in my mind, but let’s put that to one side for now. Even if the legislature is right that “protection orders” can be fairly characterized as preventive rather than punitive in nature, what exactly is it that gives it a right to prevent people from doing things that in its own view are not actually wrong? The legislature itself is acting like a bully, albeit a well-intentioned one. It’s a good thing that Justice McDougall silenced it.